Relativity
by a mountain of gideon's scones
Summary: ClaireOliver. They meet, they disagree, they love, they die. Because, in the end, that's how the story is meant to go, isn't it?


For Founders Daughter Ivashov

Dedicated to: Vitzy & Maddie

Thanks to: who's scruffy looking (Maddi) for the style used to write this.

NB: Most of this was written after 4am.

I don't own anything

* * *

They're complete polar opposites: he's the bloodsucking vampire vying for control of Morganville; she's the naïve little _human_ girl, who has caught herself up in matters far out of her grasp. She's Claire, he's Oliver, and, together, they paint a picture so iridescent and striking, they've almost been made for one another.

(If, of course, you remember he's over four hundred years older than she is.)

It's possible that one wouldn't believe this, if one could see them together, however: he's elderly – both physically and mentally – with an acerbic tongue which lashes anyone who opposes him…yet there's something in his dark eyes that suggests he _internally_ possesses the stunning splendours that most of the other vampires show outwardly. But…Claire…she's young, human (you can _never_ forget that her heart continues to pump blood through her body, never forget the vitality held in her blood vessels) and she's unsure of Morganville; but, still, she possesses the brilliance, the enigmatic spark of something indescribable, that only the vampires seem to have. She's unique, intriguing, inquisitive…stunning.

She's delicate and he's the thing that could, if he desires, shatter her into one thousand pieces.

* * *

**They meet.**

He's pretending to be the old, hippie, _human_ coffee shop owner when she meets him; well, he's pretending to be that to every human in Morganville, not just her.

(He's not aware that she's anything special…yet.)

She's young, weak and unsure as to what happens in this town, and the friendly face she sees as Oliver hands her a hot chocolate is comforting…and memorable. She's not sure _why_ it's memorably – he's old and not what she imagines her type to be – but it stays in her mind even after he walks away.

(In fact, she will never forget it, and it's sticking in her mind even more than those once unforgettable faces of Shane and Michael, boys handsomer than she has ever seen before.)

Her measure of him this first meeting is barely consequential; she's more preoccupied talking to Eve about what she's going to basically do in Morganville – because she can _never_ leave, not now she knows about vampires – and she's barely focusing on the man walking quietly around her, so quietly that it _should_ send alarm bells ringing through her eardrums.

But she doesn't care, because _everyone_ seems to trust Oliver, so why shouldn't she?

Whilst Claire's view of Oliver is more peripheral, Oliver's of her is most certainly the other way around; he's observant of everything about this girl new to Morganville, just like him the year previously. There's always potential in those who don't know the system – they're easier to mould into your way of thinking, generally, for they've no preset thoughts within their mind.

Even as he walks away, his mind seems fixated on the fleeting, crystal clear image of the girl on the rickety chair in the corner; it's almost as if the picture has been painted into his mind, latched in there with indelible ink that can never be removed. All his thoughts and memories are clear – he's a vampire; you wouldn't _expect_ anything less – yet it's almost as if this one sets the bar for the rest…and all others are murky compared to this.

She stands out to the faux human; the shining nature of her soul is a beacon to him, indicating that whatever makes a vampire _great_…she already has it.

But, then again, she doesn't _really_ know him, does she? For she thinks he's a cool, hippie coffee shop owning _human_, when he's actually playing for the most important spot in town.

* * *

**They realise.**

Then, it's no longer as simple as Oliver thinking Claire's malleable and able to conform to his will, and Claire thinking Oliver's a pretty alright guy: she's aware he's a vampire, that he's basically after her blood, and horror is basically the only thing she can feel.

So, then she does the sensible thing.

She runs.

There's no gradual realisation that they're this way; it's plain and simply sudden, with no contemplation of build up able to occur because, well, the only reason she finds out he's a vampire is by _seeing_ the fangs.

All at once, the image in her head of the man whose beauty is something she can't understand distorts; she's trying to draw on the fangs in an almost cartoon style in her head, to associate the previously harmless image with danger_, danger, __**DANGER**_.

She's as far away from him as she can be, hidden behind the door to the Glass House – thankfully, the complete opposite to the delicate nature the name suggests – and the image of his face from before is replaced…to an extent. All she wants is to rid herself of any positive side to her thoughts about Oliver and replace them with the knowledge she's just learnt – that he's basically lied every time they've spoken thus far – yet it's proving harder than she thought.

(Those indelible images aren't just in Oliver's head.)

On the other side, Oliver's realising that she's not going to be easy to control; that iridescent ember inside of her, the one he continues to liken to a vampire's, is going to keep her strong and au fait; she's not going to succumb to him for _anything_, he's suddenly aware, because she's more in control than he gave her credit for. The 'brilliance' she contains is striking to him as the image inside his head seems to have even more clarity than before, if such a thing can occur because that in itself was previously flawless.

And so he's left wondering what the point of all those random dreams – the ideas of them ruling the town together, the ones that flitted through his mind in those spare moments of idleness when he waited for something to do – if she's never going to go near him again? One image of the hundreds sticks in his mind: they're standing side by side, golden crowns adorning their heads, and _they_ control the town, together.

But that's all over now, isn't it? She's aware he's a vampire; he's aware that she's never going to roll over and be submissive to his power: their time has come to an end.

Though, he supposes wryly, it would help if it had actually begun.

* * *

**They oppose.**

She's forced to go to Common Grounds merely three weeks after her discovery of Oliver being a vampire, because there's basically no other coffee shop in Morganville – and she's gotten herself a _slight_ obsession with having a mocha fix.

She's got absolutely no desire to go into the shop of which he owns, merely for the fear that she'll say something that'll get her killed, because she's got no self control. She never has had; she says whatever she feels impulsively, without fear of the consequences, because she's never felt threatened by another person before…not like this, anyway.

Yet she walks in and heads straight for the counter, relieved to see Eve's replacement on the till.

Until _he_ walks out of his office.

Claire tenses up as her eyes catch the movement of the door, and she turns her head away to avoid talking to him. Unfortunately for her, the man whose face _wont_ leave her mind – and there's even no fangs, he just looks _normal_ – walks behind the coffee counter and stands right in front of her.

His eyes bore down into hers, stunning her into an almost comatose state, all those stills in her mind gaining energy and bouncing around, off the limitless walls of her unrestricted mind. She's unable to move, unable to think of anything because all her attention is focused on trying to work out if he really _does_ have any of the apparent vampire beauty beneath the wrinkles; the only place she can see it is in his eyes, she theorises, because they're rich and filled with indescribable emotions.

Then she remembers who _he_ is and who _she_ is, so she wrenches her head away and breaks the spell, one that would be called _magic_ in other contexts, because there's a silvery, yet invisible thread that's weaving its way around the pair of them, binding them together.

She doesn't need to say anything; the look of pure disgust conveys her emotions perfectly as the barrista fetches her the coffee she ordered.

And so, without another word, she sweeps from the café in a manner that reminds him of Amelie, with all her regality, and has him wondering if that spark is more forceful than he could have ever imagined.

* * *

**They change.**

Then things begin to change.

There are no words for the feelings that hang in the air, for they seem to change with every mood; one minute, Claire's hating Oliver with as much passion as she loves _science_ (because nothing could be compared to that love) and then the next, all she can think of is that image of him in her head.

It's never left, not once, and she's beginning to wonder if the sequence of events that surround that image are real, or if she's just making them up.

In all honesty, she's not sure which is worse.

He doesn't realise what's happening either, because everything he's ever felt for anything has just disappeared and all that's left is Claire. He feels he knows everything about her: the exact measurements of every dimension of her face, her pet hates, even how she views the town, for she's never been openly complementary towards it, has she?

And so things begin to get confused; no longer is there a crystal clear image, one transparent for all to see, of the two of them: what was once clear is now murky, muddy ditchwater, their relationship obscured behind those things called _feelings_.

(Feelings always get in the way; it's been seen time and time again, most recently with Sam and Amelie.)

It hurts her to even begin to be neutral in terms of thinking of Oliver, since he tried to kill her – and he's done that more than once. She's confused and unsure as to _why_ she's feeling anything for the elderly hippie, wondering perhaps if she's just weird to be attracted that way to someone like that. It has to be her; after all, the women aren't exactly falling over their feet to rush to him, are they?

(He wonders the same thing, though considers the possibility that the spark in her is what makes her so attractive to him. And he theorises – correctly, naturally – that she feels the same way.)

Things are changing between Claire and Oliver, things affecting them in ways that are indescribable to anyone else, but all anyone thinks is that Claire is in love with Shane.

And she tries to kid herself that way; she tries to pretend that she _enjoys _kissing him (she _doesn't_) and gives all her might in attempting to force the image of the vampire out of her mind whenever she thinks of the word love.

(After all, it's disgusting, an elderly vampire and a sixteen year old girl, isn't it?)

* * *

**They discuss.**

Neither of them speaks as they both come together in his office in Common Grounds one night after closing. She had to sneak here when her friends fell asleep because, well, being out on your own in Morganville is one thing; sneaking away to come see _Oliver_ is something else entirely.

She lowers the hood on her coat and reveals her pale white skin, near to the pallor of snow, in shocking contrast to the vividness of her lips; it's this moment when Oliver realises something.

He's _infatuated_ with her.

The girl has never left his mind since he met her, never been far from his conscious thoughts, and he cannot comprehend _why_ because he's Oliver, the most feared vampire in town, whereas she's merely a _girl_.

And she's a human girl at that.

Then again, he opposes himself, she's always been there. He's never had a spare moment without seeing the luscious nature of her flushed cheeks that first day, always wowed himself by finding other, more intricate details from that snapshot image that changed everything, such as the patterning of the skin on her cheeks, and determining the _precise_ colour of her eyes.

And what about Claire? She's confused, unsure and entirely amazed because who'd have thought it; she's consumed with not only a _vampire_, but with _Oliver_, the one she swore she would always hate.

(It's extremely hard to hate the one you conclude you must be bonded with – as it can't be love; she barely knows him! – since he's always on your mind.)

And so their unspoken discussion continues, endless black orbs meeting soft chocolate in some sort of bond stronger than anything either of them have ever felt before.

She takes a step closer, as does he, and everything is wordless, due to the fact that speaking will break the bond and maybe – just maybe – shatter their imperfect, obtuse yet irreplaceable, connection forevermore.

Then his lips are on hers, completing the movement, especially when their heads touch, for the images of one another juxtapose in mid air, amidst fireworks both of them are _sure_ are real, and combine their souls forever.

Who needs to talk, eh?

* * *

**They die.**

But things aren't as easy as this, are they?

How can they be? She's a human who is supposed to hate him; he's a vampire, to whom blood and sating comes first – even if the sacrifice is someone who seems to have some connection with him that he's never going to have chance to figure out.

And so his eyes drop down, as his lips kiss her, to the snowy skin covering her jugular, focusing on the exact point where the blood pumps the fastest, the most furious, and the torment inside is too much to bear. There's the picture of her, the picture of Claire that he's almost painted himself since he's aware of features on her face that are probably too small to be seen by the naked _human_ eye, but there's the monster that controls him.

When put to the test, the monstrous vampire wins.

It _has_ to.

So he releases the girl he apparently "loves" (though it could never be love if he's doing this, could it?) and she's smiling, so that makes it easier, doesn't it? It means her muscles are tensing, which makes it more painful for her when the razor sharp fangs pierce the delicate membrane of her skin, yet he can see where his path leads to with much more clarity.

There's no chance for the words to escape her lips, merely a thin, piercing scream as those pearly white fangs fall from their hiding place and skewer her throat within less than a second. She's amazed that she can still scream, that she's able to shake and writhe to get away – she should have _known_ that "fate" would never be enough to save her life, even with the little faith she had in it – because it's _Oliver_, someone who could kill her in a second.

He's enjoying the sounds of her pain as that delicious blood sinks into his mouth, the bouquet tangy and faintly citrus, a taste comparable to the acerbity of his sarcasm if such comparisons can be made: his insides are crushing, though the monster doesn't realise, due to the fact that all it wants is her blood.

And so, as the spark that makes Claire this radiant, stunning jewel fades, the corresponding part inside _Oliver's_ soul begins to fade also; they're linked by this piece of something inside of them, the thing that Oliver waited so many years to find, until it's finally gone.

Her body lies limp in his arms as he regains control, remnants of her blood in his mouth seeming to sour as his eyes drop down to Claire, her skin akin to that of the corpse she now is: because he killed her, you know, as he killed himself. Because the thing that was inside of _her_ was inside _him_ as well, and the idea of one not being able to live without the other is literal in this sense.

Words don't mean anything as the void in his mind where the picture of Claire was looms up; he's lost her as he lost himself, the part of him that's always been linked to her – even before she existed – faded away into non-existence.

No image of her flushed cheeks is in his mind, nothing of her happy or _alive_.

There's only this one, with her half closed eyelids, an expression of fear etched on her face still along with those conspicuous marks on her neck that indicate just what happened to Claire Danvers.

* * *

**They float away separate, two halves split apart for eternity.**

* * *

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Vicky xx


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